Back to Baker Street
by koneko-desu
Summary: John and Sherlock at the hospital after Sherlock is re-hospitalized due to his internal bleeding. Takes place during His Last Vow following the scene of Sherlock, John and Mary having their talk at Baker Street after John found out about Mary's secret.


**Author's Notes:**  
My second Sherlock fanfic~!

Just a quick little scene I wrote. Takes place after Sherlock, John and Mary had that talk at Baker Street after John found out about Mary's secret and the ambulance had to come get Sherlock due to his internal bleeding. This is at the hospital, with John and Sherlock.

I really wanted to see a scene of John with Sherlock at the hospital after Sherlock had gotten shot, but they didn't give it to us in His Last Vow, so I'm writing my own.

No real warnings, just the two of them talking.

Tumblr: bombaykitty2010

* * *

**BACK TO BAKER STREET**

The room was silent except for the steady beep of the machine, monitoring the heart rate of the man who laid on the bed. The familiar smell of the hospital infiltrated John's senses and he wrinkled his nose. He felt maybe he was stuck in some weird nightmare. Maybe he was just getting so bored with suburban life that his mind was compensating for it.

In the span of 24 hours he had found Sherlock in a drug den, discovered the dickhead had a girlfriend, only to then find out he had faked the relationship and even an engagement for a case, only to be shot for his troubles. And if that hadn't been enough, John is then thrown an atomic bomb that blew apart the illusion of his happy domestic life. His wife, mother to be of his child, had been the one to put the bullet in Sherlock, and not only that, but her name's not even Mary and she had an entire secret past that involved bloodshed. John replayed the conversation the three of them had back at Baker Street over and over in his head, wondering if it had really happened. Maybe he's stuck in some alternate universe perhaps? Abducted by aliens?

But when John's eyes glanced over at the bed Sherlock's still form confirmed that this was, indeed, his reality. He reached out a shaky hand and placed it over the other man's. The long, slim fingers were, for once, still, not even a tremble. Pale skin was cold, frighteningly so. John had a hard time looking at the tubes that were stuck down Sherlock's throat, helping him to breath. Sherlock didn't belong here, this wasn't where he was suppose to be. Sherlock was suppose to be invincible, indestructible as he had so arrogantly put it, not here on this little bed with machines helping him to simply stay alive. His cheeks were hollowed, dark circles framing his closed eyes as his chest rose and fell slowly with each struggling breath.

John wanted to shake the man awake, he wanted to see those piercing eyes again, make sure that the life behind them hadn't disappeared. He wanted to hear the deep voice, rambling on and on, barely pausing for breaths, wanted to see him bounce around, unable to keep still as his eyes gleamed with delight upon finding something that drew his interest. How long will it be before he had that Sherlock back?

"Sherlock..."

John couldn't keep his voice steady as he whispered out the name. His voice was thick with unshed tears and he pulled up a chair beside the bed to sit down and settle in for the wait. He'll wait here until his friend woke up. He's not leaving until he sees those eyes opening, until he hears that voice again. He won't budge, not even if Mycroft brought in his entire secret service team, John's not moving. He rested his forehead against the hand he had over Sherlock's.

"Please...I know you gave me one miracle already, but please..."

John closed his eyes as he felt his tears spill over. He never cried in front of others, that just wasn't him, but here, now in this room with no one to bear witness, he allowed the salty droplets to fall.

"Just be OK, I need you to be OK. There's still so much you need to explain, because I'm such an idiot and I can't understand without you there. So please..."

John remained in Sherlock's room for days. Mary tried to come and see him, but John refused to talk to her or even look at her, so she left some clothes he could change into and stayed away. Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade came by too, with food for John that he left uneaten. They tried to be cheerful, but John really had no energy to meet their fake smiles. Sherlock wove in and out of consciousness. Even when he did awake, he was so heavily under the influence of morphine that he had no idea where he was or what was happening. The doctors assured John that his life was no longer in danger, but John stubbornly refused to leave until he could make the diagnosis himself that his friend was going to be OK.

Early one morning, John awoke from a thankfully dreamless sleep and looked around. He groaned as he felt his muscles cramping in complaint at the uncomfortable position he had been sleeping in. Chairs really were not meant to be used as beds. The man stood up and stretched out the stiffness in his back. Without warning, he felt a hand wrap around his wrist. Startled John looked over and followed the hand, past the long arm, up to meet Sherlock's open gaze. Sherlock was watching him intently, eyes alert and clearly aware of what was going on.

"Sherlock!"

His voice sounded like a bolt of thunder in the usually quiet room. He quickly glanced over at the morphine machine and saw that someone had turned the dosage down, he guessed it must have been Sherlock himself since there was no one else in the room.

"How long have you been here?"

The usually smooth baritone voice was raspy from lack of use and Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Uh..I..a few days..I think."

John felt a flood of feelings ram into him, relief, happiness, joy, excitement. He wanted to shout and laugh and hug the man. He wanted to thank the heavens that it was all going to be OK, because with Sherlock now awake everything HAD to be OK. He wanted to phone up everyone and tell the good news.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and gave him an inspecting once over, letting go of his wrist.

"You look worse than after the stag night."

John couldn't help the rumbling laugh that erupted from his chest.

"I don't think you're much better."

Sherlock gave him a lopsided grin and as their eyes met their both started laughing. It felt like that first night when they had chased the cabbie through the streets of London. After stumbling back into their apartment they had leaned against the wall and simply laughed at their own absurdity. Now they were laughing again, laughing at the insanity of the situation they have found themselves in. Two friends, addicted to danger, seeking out situations that pushed them to their limits and beyond. Absolute insanity.

"I should go let the others know you're awake. I'm sure they'll want to come see you."

John managed once their laughter died down a bit.

Sherlock held up a hand to stop him.

"Later. Can't deal with their fussing now."

John didn't bother arguing. He wanted to spend some time with Sherlock alone anyway.

"Have you talked to Mary since...that night?"

Sherlock's question made John sigh and he ran a hand through his hair. Mary was the one topic he did not want to talk about, although he knew he had to deal with it at some point. He can't just ignore her forever, after all they were married with a child on the way.

"I...no..no, I haven't. Still don't know what to think about all that...stuff."

Sherlock shifted a bit on the bed, trying to get comfortable.

"Like I said, you should trust her."

John furrowed his eyes and glared at a random spot on the wall.

"It's bloody hard trusting someone who shot one's best friend, you realize. Especially when she knew everything I went through the last time I thought you had died."

Sherlock kept his voice calm, but he stole a glance at John.

"I told you, she didn't aim to kill when she shot me."

John turned his glare to Sherlock this time, standing right next to the bed so he can look directly into Sherlock's eyes.

"You died. On the operation table. Your heart stopped. The doctors had even given up. They had given up on you surviving. I don't know what made you restart your own heart, but Sherlock Holmes, you died, and this time it wasn't fake."

Sherlock shrugged, even as he thought over everything he could recall after getting shot. Molly had been there, yes, and...Anderson? He was there too...Mycroft...Redbeard...and...Moriarty...he had heard Moriarty's voice, telling him to simply give up. Lulling him to death. Assuring him that he would enjoy it. And Sherlock had been inclined to agree. Death did sound so much easier to deal with than living, so much simpler. What had pulled him back? Something Moriarty had said...

"Really? I did say I'm indestructible."

Sherlock didn't give any hint of the memories that raced through his mind.

John hesitated, but he steeled himself and reached out his hands, cupping Sherlock's face between them. Sherlock blinked in surprise at the physical contact, eyes looking questioningly at John in response. The ex-soldier leaned down and brought his face close to the other man's until he was sure Sherlock could feel every breath he took.

"No. Sherlock Holmes. You are human. Stop playing games with your life. It has to stop."

Silence.

Sherlock rarely saw John look so serious, almost threateningly so.

Every fiber of John told him to move back. He was in Sherlock's personal space and likewise, his own personal space was being stomped on, but he silenced that annoying voice and held on. He needed Sherlock to understand just how serious he was being. This was no joke. Sherlock seemed to think his life was just some valueless thing to be tossed around and toyed with, but it's not, and dammit it all to hell if John was going to let him keep it up.

Finally, Sherlock coughed awkwardly and swallowed.

"Um...John, you might want to move unless you want people to start getting the wrong impression."

Sherlock moved his eyes purposefully towards one of the windows to the room. John followed his gaze and saw a nurse outside, watching them with wide, curious eyes.

John flushed and moved his hands away, standing up. The nurse saw that she had been caught staring and quickly hurried away.

"Well, I think that's going to start up some rumors. You know, for someone who keeps insisting we're not a couple you sure have a tendency to give people things to gossip about."

Sherlock observed, watching her retreating figure.

John glare irritably at the smirking detective.

"Oh shut up. You know, it wouldn't hurt if you helped stop these rumors too."

Sherlock attempted a shrug.

"Couldn't care less. You care far too much about the opinions of others, John. Not healthy."

John rolled his eyes.

"And you clearly care too little."

Sherlock looked at him as if he had just stated the most obvious thing in the world.

"I don't care at all. Why should I? Their opinions have no influence on me or my life. It's all so tediously boring."

John sighed in exasperation and sat back down in his chair.

"Yeah, you would think that. Compared to you everyone else is probably as exciting as mashed potatoes."

Sherlock scrunched up his nose.

"Mashed potatoes have no personality, John. They can't be exciting or otherwise."

John shook his head and laughed.

"Right, right. Of course."

The curly haired man looked around the room for the first time since waking up, noting the bags of uneaten food in the garbage, John's pile of clothes, some flowers no doubt sent by Molly and Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock found that incredibly baffling. How would plants help someone recover from a bullet wound?

"Tell the doctors I'm leaving tonight. Have to get back to the flat before Mrs. Hudson messes up my experiments."

The older man stared at Sherlock and blinked.

"You...realize that's not how hospitals work, right? I don't think you can just 'tell' doctors when you're leaving. They're usually the ones telling you when you can leave."

Sherlock waved an annoyed hand.

"I don't have time for their fussing. They'll have me here for weeks doing tests and whatnot. Like I have that kind of time to waste."

John crossed his arms and studied his friend.

"Yeah, well that's not really your choice. Besides, they just want to make sure you're healthy before they release you."

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"I'm awake, I'm moving, I'm alive, what more do they want? They can't hold me here against my will. Tell them that either they let me leave or I'll simply break out, like last time."

John heaved an exasperated sigh. Sherlock always got his way, one way or another. He had no doubt that if anyone tried to keep him here he'll start deducing about love affairs and revealing dirty secrets of the entire hospital staff until they kicked him out.

"Fine, fine, I'll talk to the doctors and see what they can do. But even if you do get released, you better take it easy for awhile. No running around chasing criminals all over the city."

Sherlock didn't bother responding and John knew it was his stubborn way of simply getting John to shut up without agreeing to anything. A comfortable silence settled between them, interrupted only by the continued beeping of the machine. John ran through what he needed to do before the day's over in his mind, talk to the doctors, call the others, help Sherlock get back to Baker Street, and then...and then what? Where would he go? Did he really want to go back to his home where Mary's waiting? He had managed to avoid her by staying at the hospital these past few days, but if they were to be in the same house, John was not looking forward to it at all.

"You...you could come back to Baker Street too...if you want. To stay, I mean, until you and Mary, you know. I guess it would be helpful to have someone around to do the shopping and menial stuff."

Sherlock's voice held a hint of hesitation and he avoided looking at John. Instead he picked at the blanket that covered him.

John smiled. Always the observant one, never missing a beat. Sometimes Sherlock really was like a mind reader, and while it sometimes made John uncomfortable, this was one occasion when he was glad because it meant he didn't have to voice his thoughts out loud.

"Well, if you think you can use the help...and you wouldn't mind having me back in the flat."

"I've never minded having you in the flat."

Sherlock's response was a tad quicker than usual, almost as if he was worried any hesitation would make John think otherwise.

John thought it over, but really there wasn't much to think about. The idea of being near Mary at the moment made his stomach churn, and truth be told he didn't trust leaving Sherlock on his own at the moment. Who knows what he could get up to if left to his own devices. He might reopen that wound of his and be incapable of calling for help. Or he might go running off on a case tossing caution to the wind. John would feel better knowing he was there to keep an eye on the man, make sure he eats his meals, takes his meds, and gets the rest he needs to fully recover. And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock can help him figure out what he should do about his situation with Mary. Sherlock's calculating rationality would be helpful in grounding him and preventing his emotions from running his head. With his mind made up, John reached over and gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze.

"OK, then we'll both go back to Baker Street. You did go through the trouble of putting my chair back, after all."

Sherlock smiled as he met John's gaze.

"Yeah, the view of the kitchen was getting boring."

_**The End**_

* * *

_Thanks for reading! As always, comments and reviews welcome!_


End file.
